Right, right, right, right, right, right, right. Doctors gave her Adderall for the cutting. Why wouldn’t they? Adderall helped her focus on the H she was slicing in her forehead. H? Why not? And, right in front of you, she starts cutting her thighs. Sees you looking. Then explains. Amped-up and serene. “Cutting’s better than picking. Last Christmas I picked a hole in my cheek you could put your finger through!”

God, she is screaming right in your face. Can bad breath give you cancer?

“In New Orleans,” she tells you huskily, “you put the crystal in your eye. They call it Les Yeux-Yeux. Cajuns call it Cajank.” She also said her mother used to eat her father’s ball hair. Every morning, after he shaved, Papa would snip at his scrotum beard. And when he was done, her mother would make her come into the bathroom and help her gather up the tiny hairs. She’d put them in a glass of water, swirl it a little, then drink up. Clarence Thomas-style. “Mama say no woman will want Daddy when she’s got his pubes in her belly. Mama knew things.” Now it sounds weird. But then—with the light shimmering on the white walls, blood in your brain sloshing off the top of your skull—it made tremendous sense. It made you sob. (You had to keep reminding yourself to breathe; every moment felt either really right or really wrong.) Miss New Orleans told you the only reason she did speed was that her mother made her take “zese leetle capsools” so she could see better when they searched for Daddy-hair. Mama gave the little girl Dexedrine, just like little Judy Garland got. She’d spend the day studying every square inch of bathroom floor instead of going to school. When she found a curl she’d yelp and Mommy would give her a smooch. She covered her eyes as she told the story. She hugged her knees. Then the tears would come and she’d need something. What are Mommies for?

STOP THINKING ABOUT DISEASE.

That’s how you get one. It’s so fucking hard to breathe. Speedfreaks get sick. Not you. You’re not one of them. You’re different. You’re never going to get a disease. Even though you’ve been up for…a while. You’re not one of them. You’re different. You still brush your teeth. (Manually now, since you took your Waterpik apart.) You floss. You even urinated. Maybe two days ago.

But all your stories are from long ago. Even the true ones.

You are normal. It’s the speed that made you a freak.

AMERICAN GIRL

You don’t blame your mother. You make a point of saying so, to people who do not even ask.

“I don’t blame my mother.”

She lived with a man named Tonk who said he was CIA. Tonk kept a locked case right out in the open almost like he wanted to catch you trying to get into it. He called it his Hell Box. He hinted gun. He hinted grenade. He hinted acid. “It’s probably a clarinet,” your mother said. “Tonk played in high school.”